


A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the TARDIS

by tristesses



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course, it isn't <i>exactly</i> a crash landing, but the Doctor still misses their destination by a century or so. And a continent. But hey, it's New Year's Eve in twenty-second century Vegas, and he and Donna are going out on the town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the TARDIS

**PART I: The Doctor lands the TARDIS; a certain amount of inebriation, gambling, and disappearing spaceships; the dance of the seven tentacles**

“I’ve always wanted to do this!” Donna’s excited voice yelped from inside the TARDIS. “I mean, Times Square on New Year’s and all that – or at least I have since you told me about it – ”

“Yes, definitely!” called the Doctor, sounding slightly smothered by the many clothes in his extensive closet. One hand poked out of a pile of jackets, pointing at Donna accusatorily. “Bring a jacket! One that you can hear out of this time, please? And speaking of jackets, have you seen mine anywhere?”

Donna glanced down at herself and opted not to answer, hitching the jacket’s hem up guiltily. He could just find a different coat; she rather liked this one. And it wasn’t her fault it dragged; he was the one that was so bloody tall.

The Doctor clattered around in the wardrobe a bit more, while Donna tapped her foot impatiently, made sarcastic remarks about the hilarity of a Time Lord taking so long to get dressed, and considered actually giving him his coat back, if only to make him stop hunting for it and actually get a move on. Sure, they had a time machine, but with his navigation skills she didn’t want to risk travelling back ten minutes to see the ball drop and end up in the ice age or anything.

However, Donna regretted her unkind thoughts and wished he’d searched just a bit more when the Doctor stepped into the console room wearing what appeared to be a bright purple, quilted trench coat, belted saucily with a wide black strap.

“You have got to be kidding,” she groaned.

“You’re the one that wanted me to hurry,” he retorted. “And stole my jacket, I see. What am I supposed to wear?”

“I dunno, something that makes you look a little less like a twit? Oh here, switch.” Donna shrugged off his jacket and handed it over, sadly buckling the belt of the horrid purple thing around her waist as the Doctor happily straightened his lapels.

“Excellent! Should we be off, then?” He bowed with a flourish, offering her his arm. Despite the fact that she could practically feel the purple radiating onto her skin – god, she shouldn’t wear this colour with her hair! – she grinned and accepted, bumping him with her hip in a friendly manner.

“Let’s!” she grinned, and they strutted out of the TARDIS, prepared to show New York exactly who was in town – after all, she’d never been, and it was _New York_ , the cosmopolitan centre of the world bar one (London, naturally), and she, Donna Noble, supertemp, was visiting.

“Oi!” Donna’s eyes watered with the sunlight, blindingly bright compared to the inside of the TARDIS. She made a rudimentary visor with her hands and blinked. She could have sworn she saw palm trees. “Doctor?”

“Erm.” From what she could see of his face (conveniently silhouetted by the sun), he was equal parts confused, thoughtful, and incredibly sheepish. “Think I’ve overshot it a bit.”

“No, really?” All around her were flashing lights, jangling noises, the whoops and yells of people who were a little too inebriated to be taken seriously. Giant themed buildings – one had what looked like a little amusement park on the roof – and people walking around in too-tight outfits with little spangly hats on. “This looks like Vegas!”

“Yeah, think it is.” The Doctor ruffled his hair, and spotted a little robot whiz by in midair, handing out drinks to the pedestrians. “Er, not twenty-first century Vegas, though. Looks a bit like…” he hemmed and hawed. “Mid twenty-second?”

Donna glowered.

“You overshot ‘a bit’?” she enunciated.

“Could’ve been worse.”

“You got it wrong by one hundred years and half a continent!”

“Yeah, well, can’t be perfect all the time, now, can I?” He brightened considerably, and pointed to a large, snazzy banner proclaiming _Happy New Year’s!_ “But it looks like I got the season right, at least!”

“There is that,” Donna conceded. At least this way she didn’t have to wear this coat.

“Look on the bright side, now you don’t have to wear that coat,” the Doctor said cheerfully. “Green’s much more your colour.”

“Like you have such a highly developed sense of fashion,” she groused, stowing both their coats back in the TARDIS. The Doctor watched her amusedly.

“Done yet?” he asked.

“No thanks to you, spaceman. Anyway, tell me about Vegas. Twenty-second century?”

“Looks like it,” he said. The TARDIS had landed in an abandoned lot far to the end of the Strip; they hadn’t been noticed. The Doctor steered Donna to the side as they walked.

“By this time,” he explained, “the government has given up almost all regulation of the area. It’s practically a little nation unto itself. Its own laws, its own governing body, everything. Basically, it’s an adult theme park the size of a city. The heart of the entertainment industry.”

“So, entertainment industry – ” Donna felt slightly abashed. “ – by that you mean what, exactly?”

The Doctor waved his hand dismissively. “Everyone from the bigwig casino bosses down to the croupiers. Actors, musicians, a few intergalactic prostitutes – Earth is very good money for them at this point in time – anything and everything to keep you…entertained.”

The Doctor flagged down a little drink robot. “Can I have a banana daiquiri and…what do you want, Donna?”

“Can you drink and still pilot the TARDIS?”

“’Course! I’ve done it loads of times. There was this one time, in pre-revolutionary France – except that got a bit messed up, in the end – ”

“Gin and tonic,” Donna told the robot. It whirred, and its top slid open to reveal two ice-cold drinks. “Thanks?”

“Thank you!” the Doctor said cheerily.

“That’s fantastic,” Donna said as the robot buzzed away. “Free drinks!”

“Be careful, though,” the Doctor told her. “Don’t get too carried away. The whole what-happens-in-Vegas rule doesn’t really apply, no matter what they’ve told you.”

“I’m a big girl,” Donna told him. “I can watch out for myself. It’s _you_ I’m worried about.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked indignantly as they traversed the Strip.

“Exactly what you think it does,” Donna said. “Now, we’re in Vegas. Where should we go first?”

  
**. . .**   


Donna was perspiring.

It was extremely hot inside this casino, no matter how nice the recycled-air system was.

It was extremely hot, and she was having the time of her life.

“Roll it, Doctor!” she cheered, as the Doctor wound up and threw the dice, yelping in glee as they landed on three and four. “Lucky sevens! Whoo!”

“I am fantastic!” he yelled, snatching another banana daiquiri off the hovering robot, spilling slightly on the craps table. The robot extended a long, feeler-like tube and vacuumed the mess. “Donna, aren’t I fantastic?”

“You’re fantastic, you egomaniac!” she shouted back, flinging her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek with a loud smack, much to the hooting delight of the many similarly drunken people at the table.

  
**. . .**   


They were still in the same casino two hours later, still a bit inebriated, but now playing poker and accumulating a great deal of Americredits, thanks mostly to Donna. The Doctor tried, he really did, but each time he had a decent hand his wonky left eyebrow arched up his forehead, beyond his control, while Donna’s intent, wide-eyed, pursed-lip poker face never faltered (and served to look absolutely ridiculous, much to the distraction of the other players). Donna despaired of him. He was running out of chips; soon she’d have to lend him some. What a great lummox.

At the moment, though, she had what appeared to be a straight flush – although she wasn’t sure, since around 2020 the Americans had revolutionized their playing cards in a fit of anti-imperialism; she thought she had a senator, the equivalent of a jack, but who knew – and the Doctor’s eyebrow was misbehaving. They were on a roll, and there were piles of chips on the table!

“Raise,” Donna chirped as the croupier beckoned to her, and flicked a few more into that pile. The Doctor did the same, but the man to his left laid down a triangular strip of plastic.

“’88 T-bird,” he slurred. “Got new hoverlifts ‘n everything.”

“Excellent!” said the Doctor. He slapped his cards down. “Royal flush!”

“Oi, you’re breaking the rules!” Donna began indignantly, then stopped as the croupier shoved the hill of chips toward the Doctor. His errant eyebrow combined with that smug grin gave him a look vaguely reminiscent of a Bond villain.

“Rules aren’t the same in the Wild West,” he drawled, snatching the apparent car key from the pile.

“Sorry about that,” he added to the man who’d lost his car and was staring desolately at the table, “but Donna, we’ve got new transport!”

“Brilliant!” she said, snagging two more drinks from the little robot, patting it in thanks. “Where’re we going?”

“No idea!” he told her cheerfully, taking one of the drinks from her and slamming it down. “Let’s just drive somewhere, and see where we end up, yeah?”

They half-walked, half-stumbled out to the parking garage, where the cars were stored vertically by giant machines that shuffled them around when you slid your key, and delivered your car. The gears groaned and huffed and deposited a sleek, shark-like sports car in a classic cherry red on the ground in front of them. With a low hiss, the hoverlifts kicked on; it looked like a more streamlined version of Donna’s idea of classic cars.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” she said, stroking it lovingly. The Doctor was peering under the car and shining the sonic screwdriver against its machinery, muttering things like “That’s lovely, that is” and “Ooh, gotta fix that or it’ll start clinking”.

“Looks about ready,” he nearly shouted from underneath the car. “Where next?”

“What’s Vegas famous for?” she asked him, a wicked twinkle in her eyes. The Doctor dragged himself out from under the car, a streak of gleaming grease on his cheek, and said, “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Donna, _seriously_.”

“I am serious!”

“You want me to take you to a strip club?” He sounded appalled.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll pay for drinks.”

The Doctor considered this for a moment, took a look at Donna’s very determined face, and sighed.

“All right, fine. But only for a little bit!”

“Loosen up, you’ll love it,” she ordered him cheerily as she dragged him away.

  
**. . .**   


At the far end of the Strip, where the glitz and glamour tapered to a sad few motels and a vacant, grassy lot, a junk bot paused and examined a large blue box smack in the middle of the pavement. It looked purposeful. But it was not supposed to be there.

The junk bot slapped a neon sticker on the wood – it was far too large to pick up – and moved on.

Twenty minutes later, while the Doctor and Donna were exclaiming over the sleek lines of their new ride, a giant, truck-like, automated disposal vehicle lumbered by and stacked the TARDIS with the rest of the garbage inside it. The metal hatch closed, and it lumbered away.

  
**. . .**   


“Oh my _god_ ,” Donna said in shock. If it weren’t for the enhanced alcohol running through her system, she’d probably be shrinking into her chair; as it was, she was perversely entranced by the gyrating alien stripper ten feet away from her. “She looks like a reject from Star Wars!”

“Don’t let her catch you saying that, she’ll pin you to the wall with her tentacles and give you what for,” the Doctor said. He sloshed his ubiquitous banana daiquiri in its glass and added pensively, “That might not be such a bad thing, now that I come to think of it.”

“Oi!” For some reason, the thought of the Doctor and any kind of alien intercourse bothered her quite a bit. She felt irrationally defensive about this, and added, “You’d give her papercuts, with your pointy ribs and elbow and whatnot.” Even if he was an alien, so all intercourse with him would be by definition alien intercourse, which perhaps wouldn’t bother her if it was alien-human intercourse, and why was she thinking about the Doctor and intercourse anyway?

“I wasn’t talking about _me_. You know, this species is hermaphroditic?”

“ _What?_ You’re lusting after a hermaphrodite?”

“No, I’m pretty sure she’s female right now.” The Doctor squinted at the dancer for a moment. “Might need a closer look, though.”

“Call her over,” Donna suggested, rather enjoying the idea of making him squirm. “They still do lap dances in the twenty-second century, right?”

“No!”

“Oi!” Donna shouted to the dancer, who flicked her blue-green tentacles out of her eyes and looked flirtatiously at the redhead. “Can you give my friend a show?”

“Twenty credits per song,” she agreed, coming to perch on the Doctor’s knee. He looked half petrified as one of the tentacles on her head stroked his cheek; he gulped when it flicked his earlobe and tried to shrink himself further into his chair.

“One song should be good, yeah?” Donna asked the Doctor, and when she received no response, she swiped her credit card through the slot in the arm of the chair; it prompted her for the dancer’s fingerprint, and that was it, twenty credits gone and one extremely uncomfortable Time Lord to her left.

“What’s your name, then?” he managed, glaring at Donna while attempting to find someplace to put his hands.

“Chara,” she purred, and set his hands firmly on the small of her back, continuing to grind against him. “But you can call me whatever you want.”

“Chara’s fine,” he said, and tilted his head back as she slid her hands up his chest, toying with his tie. “Er – what are you doing?” His voice had a distinctly panicked note, logically so, seeing as she had just stuck her tongue in his ear.

“Comes with the show,” she said, puzzled, then straightened with a gleam of understanding in her eyes.

“Oh, you’re a virgin!” she exclaimed as Donna nearly spat her drink out with laughter. She laid a hand on his cheek and patted him in a weirdly maternal fashion. “It’s okay, I’ll go slow.”

“I am not!” he spluttered. He tossed an injured look at Donna and repeated. “I am not a virgin! I’m old! I’ve done _tons_ of dancing! And – wait, what do you mean, you’ll go slow?”

Chara sighed and leaned back; her seductive manner was suddenly swapped for a businesslike one.

“Honey, this is Vegas. People don’t come here for the _dancing_ ; they come here for the sex. This is the only city in the western hemisphere licensed for inter-species copulation – I mean, not that people don’t do it, but at least here you won’t get arrested. What else do you want from me?”

The Doctor gaped for a moment, then shut his mouth and looked at Donna. She was sipping her drink and pointedly looking anywhere than at him.

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“You know,” Donna said reflectively, just as the Doctor was sliding his hands along Chara’s smooth blue back, “I’ve never done it with an alien.”

“Want to?” asked Chara, pressing her cheek against the Doctor’s. “We can make it a threesome. Two hundred credits. One fifty, for you. You’re _very_ pretty.”

Donna was actually considering it – the steady flow of daiquiris made the proposition seem very tempting – when the Doctor said suddenly, “Anyway, time to dash, lovely meeting you Chara, come _on_ , Donna!” He wriggled until Chara stood, looking affronted, and patted her awkwardly on the cheek while fishing around in his pockets.

“Here,” he said, thrusting a stack of poker chips at her. “For your trouble. Donna – ”

She was helping herself to a platter of nibbles. He grabbed her hand and whisked her away, but not before mentally marking the street address of the club. Chara was a very nice girl.

“What was that for?” Donna demanded as he propelled her down the sidewalk. “I was enjoying myself! And you were too, from the look of things!”

“Er, TARDIS,” he stumbled, “wanted to find it, re-park it, all those things…you know, just in case?”

“It’s because of what I said, isn’t it?” she said. “You silly bugger, I didn’t mean I wanted to – you know – with _you_! I mean, you’re not the only alien around here!” She sounded almost upset, although the Doctor couldn’t figure out why for the life of him.

“What? No!” he stammered as they trotted along. “That’s not why – you’re free to do whoever – whatever, sorry – you want, really, I just wanted to find the TARDIS.”

“Sure,” Donna said sceptically. The Doctor made a pass for a drink robot, and she slapped his hand down. “I’m cutting you off, you prat.” She helped herself while the Doctor stared in chagrin.

“Oh, come on, Donna, that’s not fair!”

“One of us needs to be sober enough to remember where we put the TARDIS, and it’s not going to be me!”

The Doctor sighed, dejected. “You have a point. I suppose.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it into a crest, and said thoughtfully, “Where to next?”

“I thought we were going to find the TARDIS.”

“Oh. Er. Right.”

“See, _that’s_ why I’m cutting you off.”

Once they were in the car, the Doctor twiddled a few dials on the streamlined dashboard and the roof promptly slid back with a soft screech; a few moments later, he tapped in the coordinates for the automated steering system and swiped the key. The car hummed as the internal combustion engine awoke, and with a jolt it shot forward, veering quickly around other cars on the multi-layer road. He was very glad for the seatbelts. Donna shrieked as the car executed a slow loop-de-loop, narrowly avoiding a waste droid, and flung her hands in the air like she was on a roller coaster. She was laughing freely, her ginger hair streaming out behind her, looking windblown and giddy and tipsy and very, very lovely.

“You are something, Donna Noble,” he told her, smiling. She glanced at him, a half-grin on her face, and said, “You are too, Doctor.”

 

 **PART II: Chara makes a change; Donna makes a proposal; the Doctor makes a realization, not to mention a fool of himself**

After that gorgeous ginger and the silly man in the suit had left, Chara decided her shift was up; technically, it had been over nearly an hour ago, but her endurance was like that of all her species – substantial – and she really didn’t have much else to do, really, until her other job began in twenty minutes. (She wasn’t registered with the Bureau of Solicitation, strictly speaking, and had to have something to fill in the blank marked ‘Occupation’ on her residency license – and could anyone be less suspicious than a justice of the peace?)

In the dressing room, she peeled off her stockings and slipped out of her obnoxiously tall shoes – humans and their sexual tastes, so weird – and stood naked before the mirror. This body, flooded with estrogen, was designed to appeal to the human male psyche: tall, curvy, slightly disproportionate. But, while Chara preferred her female form, she also disliked the more humanoid shape she had to take as a dancer. Luckily, her other job didn’t require so much from her.

The pleasant frisson shivered through her body as she cut back on the estrogen, easing into her body’s natural hormonal equilibrium. Her porous bones readjusted; her skin and muscles stretched and contracted to fit her new shape, taller, leaner, with a slim whiplike tail for balance, a slight fuzz over her entire body, and a row of teats on her chest for nursing her litter when she had them.

Chara smiled at herself, took her snazzy black tux out from her locker, and began to dress.

  
**. . .**   


“Are you sure this is the right place?” Donna asked for the third time. The Doctor was pacing, wearing circles in the grass where the TARDIS should have been.

“Pretty sure,” he said, “I can detect its energy traces. But where’s it gone?”

“Could someone have taken it?” Donna suggested.

“Impossible.” He glanced around at the surroundings; it looked like the sort of place disillusioned suburban teenagers would go to get drunk in small cities, except clean. Clean…

“Oh Donna, you’re brilliant!” he yelped, and spun to leap into the car, Donna following him.

“I know! But how am I brilliant again?” she cried out as he slashed the key through the slot and they rocketed away, the Doctor programming coordinates, swift and meticulous.

“Someone took it away. They thought it was trash, so they took it!”

“Oh!” Realization dawned. “A garbage robot?”

“Exactly. They don’t make structures out of wood now, and a twenty-second century machine wouldn’t recognize the type of energy patterns the TARDIS emits. It’d just assume it was left there by accident.”

“So now we’re following the robot?”

“Yes!” The Doctor nudged the car a little faster; buildings zoomed by, and they angled up to avoid traffic. Lights flashed behind them, and Donna could faintly hear a siren over the roar of the city.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“I think we’re being pulled over, if you’d like to pay attention!”

“Oh!” Indeed they were; the police car, decorated with swathes of white, black, and a violent shade of yellow, was nearly alongside them now. The cop inside did not look amused.

The Doctor pulled into a docking station attached to the nearest building and waited. He didn’t seem nervous at all, in contrast to Donna, who was fidgeting with her nails and shooting sideways looks at the policeman.

“Are you going to get arrested?” she hissed at the Doctor. “You’re driving drunk!”

“Nah,” he told her smugly, “can’t be. The Unlimited Inebriation Act was passed a few years ago; we’ve got an automated driver, so we’re fine.”

Donna was not reassured.

“License and registration, please.” The Doctor handed him the psychic paper; the officer perused it a moment, then asked sternly, “Sir, do you realize why I’ve pulled you over?”

The Doctor threw him a grin and replied, “Because I’ve got quite a flash car?”

The cop tilted his head. “Sir, have you been imbibing any alcoholic or otherwise intoxicating substances recently?”

“A bit,” the Doctor said agreeably. “Is that a problem?”

The cop stared at him in disbelief.

“I mean,” added the Doctor hastily, sensing something deeply wrong about this situation, “morally speaking, of course, it’s rotten for me, but I’m planning on repenting that soon. Legally, I’m in the clear. Right?”

With a heaving sigh, the cop asked him to please step out of the car, sir. The Doctor did so.

“Walk along this line, please.” As the Doctor did, not without a slight wobbliness, the cop lectured, “The UIA means you can drive while inebriated, sir, not that you can defy traffic laws and make your own lanes in the upper layer. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“Erm – ” the Doctor scrambled for an excuse, thinking “we’re on a quest to find my time machine” might not work, but Donna blurted, “We’re getting married?”

The Doctor stared at her and mouthed, “What?” Donna pointed at the building a block or two away. Large, white, and multilayered, with dozens of cars zipping around through what looked like little churches on the docking stations: the glowing sign on the roof proclaimed, THE LITTLE WHITE CHAPEL. _INCLUDES 50 DRIVE-THRU LOVE TUNNELS!_

“Right!” the Doctor agreed. “We’re getting married.”

“Congratulations,” said the cop, eyeing the Doctor suspiciously. “Just the two of you, then?”

“Er, yes,” the Doctor replied, “just us. Can I get back in the car now?”

“Oh, go ahead.” The policeman’s entire demeanour had changed. “Nice to see young folks like you sticking with traditional marriage, between two similar life forms. None of these multi-partner, multi-species relationships, if you can call them that!” He shook his head in disgust. “Sometimes I don’t know where this country is headed.”

“Oh, we agree,” they chorused in near unison.

“Anyway, I’m going to let you off with a warning.” He snapped the psychic paper shut and handed it back to the Doctor. “Don’t do it again. And if you cut around the block, you can make it to the chapel sooner.” He winked at the Doctor. “So you can make it to the honeymoon sooner.”

“Yeah, thanks,” the Doctor said, a slightly contemptuous note in his voice. “See you later.”

They left the police car idling on the platform, and whipped around the block in the pattern he’d advised.

“Is he still looking?” the Doctor inquired, checking the rearview mirror. Driving manually took a bit to get used to.

“Yeah, he is,” said Donna, watching the small figure receding. “I think he’s got binoculars.”

“Guess we’ll have to go through with it, then,” the Doctor said resignedly. “Oh well, we can always annul it later. Ever since Britney they’ve had a little divorce court in the basement.”

“Oi, is getting married to me really that painful?” Donna demanded, masking her slightly (irrationally, damn it!) hurt feelings with bluster. The Doctor shot a glance at her, wearing the oddest expression, then cleared his throat.

“Course not!” he said heartily. “The paperwork’s a bit of trouble, but other than that…speaking of paperwork – well, sort of – there’s a ring in my inside jacket pocket. Do you mind? I would, only I don’t fancy getting smeared across the road by a drag racer – ”

Donna scootched closer to him, pressing against him with her thigh, and went delving around in his jacket. The Doctor’s voice cut off abruptly as she absentmindedly flipped his tie over his shoulder; she was nestled in the crook of his arm due to their cramped position.

“Found it,” she said, tossing it in the air then catching it. “Is this our wedding band, then?”

“Yup.”

“Looks familiar.”

“It is. I gave it to you the first day we met, remember?” He pulled behind a shiny copper car, small and compact, at one of the “drive-thru love tunnels”.

“Right, my bio-damper!” She grinned and held it up to the light. “At least this time I’m getting properly married. Sort of.”

There was a dejected note in her voice. The Doctor looked at her from the corner of his eye, and saw that she was cradling the ring in her palm, a melancholy half-smile on her face. He opened his mouth to speak – condolences, apologies, declarations, Donna you’re beautiful, Donna let’s not make this a joke – but no words came out. She exhaled heavily, shook her hair back, and joked, “Wish I had something better to wear, at least.”

“You’re fine,” he told her, with a wave of his hand. “You look lovely.”

She flipped the visor down and peered at herself critically in the little mirror. “No I don’t. I look – well, I look like I’ve spent the day getting pissed and running around with aliens, actually.”

“Like I said. Honestly, Donna, can you just accept a compliment? It’s not that hard. Say ‘Thank you, Doctor.’”

“Thank you, Doctor.” He could almost hear the squelching as her eyes rolled.

“There, was that so difficult?” The line jumped ahead; she was saved having to answer.

The tunnel was lavishly decorated with the kind of things that young preteens and little old ladies find adorable: frills, lace, varying shades of pink and white, and a few multi-cultural cupids, some with antennae.

“Hello, and welcome to the Little White Chapel.” The justice of the peace was a bored-looking person with androgynous looks and an equally unspecific voice. “Please fill out this paperwork – ” a sleek electronic clipboard was thrust into the car, “ – and return it when you are ready to be married.” She – he – it left without another word to attend to another window.

“Right,” the Doctor said determinedly. “Number of partners? Two. Ages? Well – I could pass for thirty-something, right?”

“Sure,” Donna said, amused.

“All right. Citizen account number – we can make those up – addresses – same – ooh, consent forms. Here’s yours.” He handed it to her, and Donna skimmed it. Her eyebrows travelled up her forehead as she read. _I, __________, do hereby proclaim that I enter into a contract of marriage with ___________ (hereafter referred to as the intended) out of my own free will; that I, as a legal adult of the United States of America, do consent to a monogamous relationship with the intended as described in form 739-66-A; and that, upon failure of consummation of the marriage within ninety (90) days of signing, and subsequent to the agreement of both parties, to annul this contract…_

“Consummation?” she squeaked, ignoring the pleasant tingle in her stomach at the thought. “We’re not going to have to – ”

“No!” the Doctor exclaimed, and were the tips of his ears turning red? Donna thought so. “Definitely not. We have ninety days to annul it before then.”

“Right,” she said, and then, “Does that alien in there look familiar?”

The Doctor peered over her shoulder. Indeed, those blue tentacles did look familiar; they’d been caressing him rather naughtily earlier that day.

“Is that Chara?” he called, and she turned, smoothing her hands down her trouser legs, and doing a double take when she saw who it was.

“You two certainly get around,” she said as she strode to the window. “Was the club some version of a bachelor’s party?”

“Sort of,” said Donna as the Doctor said “No.” They looked at each other in amused irritation.

“Actually,” continued the Doctor, “it was just a whim. We didn’t really plan to get married – ”

“We were looking for his spaceship,” Donna interjected.

“ – but then we got pulled over and it was the first excuse we could think of.” He glanced down at the clipboard and handed it to the other alien.

“Planning on annulment, then?”

“Probably, yeah,” the Doctor said, with a certain note in his voice Donna was not used to. His ears were flushing again.

“But you don’t want to,” Chara said with a grin.

“Of course I do! Awkward, awkward all around if I don’t.” He made a face, apparently to showcase the level of awkward that would occur. Donna rather thought he was making a big deal out of nothing.

Something beeped behind the drive-through window, and Chara typed a few things.

“There, you’re paperwork’s all processed. Want to say vows or anything, or just give her the ring and get out of here?”

“Right, the ring.” The Doctor patted his pockets. Donna handed it to him.

“With this ring…” Chara prompted.

“Right! Right, Donna, with this ring…” he slid it on her finger, “I thee bio-damp. Er, marry. Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Bio-damp me anytime, spaceman,” she told him, and kissed his cheek, quite impulsively. That tingly sensation in her stomach was back, probably in reaction to his half-pleased, half-shy expression.

“So did you say you were looking for a spaceship?” Chara asked, leaning her elbows on the windowsill and effectively ruining the moment.

“Er, yeah,” the Doctor said, “it’s a blue police box, actually. But still a spaceship. Actually – ” he thought very hard for a moment, “ – I can’t sense it anymore.”

“That’s just lovely,” Donna commented.

“No, no, it’s not good at all!” (He completely missed her sarcasm.) “Means I’ve lost it. Chara, do you happen to know where the nearest industrial dump is, by any chance?”

“Yes, it’s a ways out of town, but I can tell you. Got paper?”

“I can remember,” the Doctor said loftily. Chara raised an eyebrow at him, but continued.

“Drive down that way, staying in the fast lane – otherwise you’ll get caught in a traffic jam – keep going until you pass the New Venetian, then take a right. You’ll go out of the Strip and into the industrial part of the city. Keep driving, watch out for the guard bots, they’re pretty vicious, like to deactivate your hoverlifts in case you’re trying to steal something or graffiti something or whatever, and the dump is the short, squat building on the edges of the city. After that you’ll need ID. Can’t help you there.”

The Doctor stroked the pocket that held the psychic paper and smirked. “I’ve got that under control. Say, did you ever cash in those poker chips we gave you?”

“You gave her our chips?” Donna asked indignantly.

“Yeah, he did,” Chara said with a grin at Donna, evidently amused. “Thanks for that. Do you know how much money you gave me?”

“Nah.” The Doctor waved a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t tell me.” He glanced at Chara, who smiling at him indulgently with her head cocked to one side.  
“So you mentioned you have a time machine? How many people does it fit?”

“Er – ”

“Dunno if you remember, Doctor, but we’ve sort of got a TARDIS to save!”

“Right! Er, Chara, lovely seeing you again, but they compact the trash here and, well, that’d be a little unfortunate for us – ”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “Have fun. Time travelling and all.”

Donna reached across and slammed the car into gear, and waved at Chara.

“Nice meeting you!” she said. Chara raised an eyebrow at the slightly mocking tone, and watched as the two travellers zoomed away in the direction she pointed them.

“Just jealous,” she sighed. No matter how hard Donna tried to deny it, as Chara was sure she did. She ran into more jealous women in her line of work than she’d choose to.

The next car scooted up the line, filled with five giggling humans. Chara put on her best smile and began to shuffle paperwork.  


  
**. . .**   


  


**PART III: The ramifications of code mauve; a bit of exercise; Donna conducts an experiment**

The sun was sinking down below the curve of the desert horizon as the Doctor and Donna drove into the industrial zone. Donna had been very quiet since they left the Strip, which was a little worrisome, and led to the Doctor babbling about people Donna didn’t know and events she didn’t care about.

“So it was less of a war than – well, an orgy, to be honest. Didn’t look like one, though. Not that I’ve been to many! Just, you know, Time Lord and all, we get around. Um. And if you think _that_ was ridiculous, you should have seen it when Jack met Oscar Wilde – although “met” probably isn’t the right word for that – er, right, you don’t know him. Jack, I mean, not Oscar Wilde, although you probably don’t know him either – ”

“Doctor,” Donna said wearily, “shut up.”

“Er – okay.” He did, although not for particularly long. “Are you all right?”

“I’m hungover,” she snapped. “You should be too. Bloody Time Lords.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, purposefully not making mention of his superior toxin-processing systems, and manoeuvered the car to a dismal alley in between hulking buildings. He cut off the hoverlifts and they sank to the ground with a thunk. “We walk from here.”

“Brilliant,” Donna said. She was not too believable.

They snuck out of the dark alley, keeping close to the shadows, the Doctor tiptoeing, Donna merely walking quietly. He tossed a few glances back at her, communicating queries such as “What’s wrong with you?” and “Please at least pretend you’re having fun” with his eyebrows. She arched hers back at him, clearly saying, “I’ll walk how I want to, Martian boy.”

Small robots – guards, most likely – zipped around above their heads. Occasionally one would beam a red laser to the ground, scan a small area, then beep and fly away.

“What are they doing?” Donna mouthed at the Doctor. He shrugged eloquently, then added, “Scanning for biological traces?”

A red beam caught them in the shadows, making them freeze, as if being extremely still would make the laser go away. Several loud beeps commenced, and the robot stated, “Declare your name and purpose.” The Doctor shrugged at Donna, then sauntered out of the shade.

“Doctor Smith,” he said, holding up the psychic paper. “Health and Safety. The union sent us. This – ” he gestured at Donna, hovering behind him, “is Donna Noble – ”

“His boss,” she interjected. At his look, she hissed, “What? I’m not going to be the ‘plucky girl who helps you out’ again, am I?”

A stubby metal arm extended from the robot, with what looked like a PIN pad attached to it. “Scan your identification card and prepare for fingerprint clearance.”

The Doctor swiped the psychic paper and stepped back, looking smug. The robot whistled and beeped again, apparently processing the information. It whirred, growled, and declared, “Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Code mauve! Code mauve!”

“What?” the Doctor asked it, perplexed.

“Shit,” Donna decided, grabbed the Doctor’s hand (he was standing there looking flabbergasted – as if his little paper thingy had never failed in the past!), and bolted.

The industrial compound was stout and compact, not an inch wasted; the narrow roads and alleys were built on a grid, the map of which was firmly imbedded in the guard bots’ software. The two signs of life on the premises had been locked on to, and now they followed them from above, whizzing above them as they chased the Doctor and Donna through the shadowed mini-city.

It was amazingly difficult to outrun the robots, nearly impossible; the best chance they had, the Doctor reasoned, was to find the TARDIS as soon as possible and just leave the area. Too bad; he’d wanted to see what their waste processing plants were like. They were said to have been revolutionary.

Donna, keeping pace with him admirably, chose to remind him of their current predicament, and yelled, “What do we do now?”

“This way!” he shouted, and pulled her through a doorway. “Ooh, she’s close, I can feel her!”

He cast around wildly and saw the silhouette of the police box poised precariously on a heap of rubbish. “There she is! Come on, Donna!”

The arrow-shaped robots were zooming through the doorway, locking in on the two of them as they clambered up the garbage heap.

“Ugh, this is disgusting!” moaned Donna, as she put her hand into a glop of unidentifiable green-tinged jelly.

“Yes, I know, just keep going!” the Doctor encouraged, slipping on a variety of slimy food products – some restaurant’s trash had evidently been picked up with the TARDIS.

“Intruder alert!” the robots wailed. “Intruders to be taken to the holding cells! Intruder alert!”

“We heard you!” shouted Donna over her shoulder as the Doctor frantically jimmied his key in the lock.

“Gotcha!” he crowed, and the two of them fell into the TARDIS. He left Donna sprawled on the floor and rushed to the console, tapping in coordinates with quick fingers.

“Still want to see those fireworks, Donna?” he called to her.

“Don’t care,” she told him, “I just want to get out of here.”

“Fireworks it is, then.” The TARDIS whooshed and creaked, and flickered out of being.

  
**. . .**   


Several robots buzzed forlornly over the indentation the TARDIS had left in the rubbish.

“Intruder alert?” one inquired quizzically of another.

“Code periwinkle,” it responded sadly. It deactivated the mauve alert and meandered away, off to patrol the streets of the complex for the really devious delinquents out there.

  
**. . .**   


Donna and the Doctor stood on the rooftop of the Little White Chapel, one of the highest vantage points in the city. She smelled faintly of antiseptic, having scrubbed herself determinedly of all detritus before stepping out of the TARDIS again.

“All in all, it could’ve been worse,” she mused with a sigh. “I think this is the first New Year I’m going to remember since I turned eighteen.”

“That’s not all bad, though,” the Doctor said. “Is it?”

She shrugged. “Well, perhaps better without the chasing…but yeah, it’s pretty great.”

He could feel her smiling even in the dark. His hearts swelled with some unknown, all-too-human emotion.

“Donna,” he began, not quite sure what he was going to say, but positive that he had to say it or explode. “I think – ”

“Ooh, listen!” The crowds down below them, filling the streets of Vegas, were chanting in unison, counting down from ten. “We’re close!”

“ – four, three, two – ONE!” On cue, fireworks exploded in the sky, sparkling in elaborate displays of animated fire, glittering unabashedly in neon colours like the city itself.

“It’s gorgeous,” Donna sighed, then tilted her head to face the Doctor. “What were you saying?”

“Oh – it’s nothing,” he told her, and mustered up a smile. “Happy New Year, Donna.”  
She watched him a moment – unusually quiet again, unusually perceptive, making him nervous.

Then she kissed him.

The Doctor was stunned, taken by surprise, this was a sneak attack! – and those were the excuses he made for wrapping his arms around her and kissing her back, quite fiercely, hands tangled in her glorious red hair.

A few seconds later – or maybe half a millennium, he wasn’t sure, being a Time Lord had never prepared him for moments like this – she pulled away, smirking at his utterly gobsmacked expression, positively radiating smugness.

“I knew it,” she told him. “I just _knew_ it. You big prat, what happened to just mates?”

“I – what?” he stuttered. “You kissed me!”

“I’m glad your giant Time Lord brain figured that one out.”

“But just mates – ”

She flung her hands in the air, quite disgruntled.

“To hell with just mates! Does it look like I want to stick with that?” She grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him toward her. “You don’t much either, if all your gawking at me is anything to go by. And don’t think I haven’t known each time you steer off course because you’re staring at my tits!”

“Donna, your breasts are very hypnotic,” he protested, which wasn’t a sentence he’d thought he’d ever say in his lifetime.

“Thank you, and you’d better remember that.” She snogged him once more for punctuation, and left him slightly dazed and grinning like a fool. “This means no more flirting with alien strippers, all right?”

“I can’t help it if they give in to my natural charm,” he teased, and was rewarded by a smack. He caught her face between his palms and kissed her lightly, barely brushing her lips with his, and felt her sway slightly.

“I promise,” he murmured, “to keep my hands and legs and everything else inside the metaphorical Donna-vehicle at all times, all right?”

“Brilliant,” she whispered, and the fireworks exploded in neon above them, mingling with their stars.


End file.
